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Christmas Fantasy 




1 


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The Escape of Alice 

A Christmas Fantasy 


By 

Vincent Starrett 

/i 




PRIVATELY PRINTED AT 
CEDAR RAPIDS IOWA FOR 
THE FRIENDS OF LUTHER 
ALBERTUS AND ELINORE 
TAYLOR BREWER CHRIST- 
MAS NINETEEN NINETEEN 




Copyright 1919 
By Vincent Starrett 


TO OUE FEIENDS 


It has been well said, that a friend in need is a 
friend indeed. 

Such a friend, Vincent Starrett, of Chicago, has 
proven to be to us. 

Last year, more to our regret than to the regret 
of our friends, we were compelled reluctantly to 
forego the pleasure and privilege of holding a ses- 
sion with them around our fireplace or beneath our 
reading lamp. 

And a similar situation was imminent at this 
Christmas time — when our good fairy, Mr. Star- 
rett, one morning dropped on our desk The Escape 
of Alice with the cheerful message, “It is yours, 
Brewer, for your Christmas booklet, if you want it. ’ ’ 

So here it is — a pleasant Christmas fantasy — 
sent to our friends of old and to some new ones, 
with all the best greetings of the season. 

The Bkeweks 


December 25 1919 



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THE ESCAPE OF ALICE 


T he red linen covers opened slightly, and a 
little girl slipped out, leaving behind her a 
curious vacancy in one of the familiar pic- 
tures signed with Mr. TenniePs initials. She looked 
about her with bright, alert eyes, hoping no one had 
been a witness to her desertion, and then carefully 
began to climb down. She need not have alarmed 
herself, for she was no bigger than a minute, and 
clearer eyes than those of the rheumatic old anti- 
quarian who kept the shop would have been needed 
to comprehend her departure. Fortunately, the 
shelf onto which she had emerged was not high, 
and by exercising great caution the little girl was 
able to reach the floor without mishap. 

Still watching the old man closely, she reached a 
hand into the pocket of her print dress and pro- 
duced a few crumbs of cake, which she immediately 
ate. Almost instantly she began to grow, and, in a 
moment, from a tiny little mite of three or four 
inches, she had shot up into as tall a schoolgirl of 
thirteen as the proudest parent could wish. The 
ascent, indeed, was so rapid that before she quite 
realized what had happened, there was her head on 
a level with the shelf upon which, only an instant 
before, she had been standing; and there was the 
7 


prison from which she had escaped. ‘^Alice’s Ad- 
ventures in Wonderland,’’ read the gold letters over 
the door. 

She plucked the volume from its place, and ad- 
vanced with it toward the guardian of the bookshop. 

‘‘If it is not too high,” said Alice, “I think I shall 
take this.” 

The old bookseller, whose wits had been woolgath- 
ering for many years, would not have admitted for 
worlds that he had not heard her enter the shop. 
He took the book from her hand. 

“You choose wisely,” he said, and patted the red 
covers lovingly. “Alice — the ageless child! It is 
one of the greatest compendiums of wit and sense in 
literature. There are only two books to match it. 
You shall have it for fifteen cents, for it is far from 
new, and I see what I had not noticed before, that 
the frontispiece is missing.” 

“And what are the other two?” asked Alice, 
eagerly. 

“When you are older you will read them,” said 
the old bookman. “They are called ‘Don Quixote’ 
and ‘The Pickwick Papers’.” 

Then very suddenly Alice blushed, for she remem- 
bered that she could not pay. Timidly, she handed 
back the red-covered volume. 

“I am sorry,” she said, “but I have no money. 
I don’t know why I was so stupid as to come away 
without any. ’ ’ ^ 

‘ ‘ Money I ’ ’ cried the antiquarian. ‘ ‘ Did I ask you 
money for this book? Forgive me! It is a habit I 
have fallen into for which I am very sorry. Money 
8 


is the least important thing in the world. Only the 
worthless things are to he had for money. Those 
things which are beyond price — thank God! — are 
to be had for the asking. Take it, child ! Tomorrow 
is Christmas day. I should be grieved indeed if 
there were no Alice for you on Christmas day — as 
grieved as if there were no Santa Claus. 

There was something so unearthly about this 
strange old man that Alice wondered if she were not 
yet in Wonderland. With a sobriety quite out of 
keeping with her usually merry disposition, she 
thanked him and went forth into the snow-clad 
streets. 

The plethora of Santa Clauses spending the holi- 
day week-end in the city bewildered Alice, and now, 
after a long afternoon in the hurly-burly of metro- 
politan life, she was becoming tired. The number 
of Santa Clauses resident upon earth appalled her, 
and the extravagance of their promises, while pleas- 
ant enough, almost frightened her. Without any 
questions asked — even her address, which, had it 
been requested, would have taxed her wits rather 
severely — they accepted her commissions and guar- 
anteed immediate delivery. The final excursion 
through the great department stores had been ad- 
venturous and diverting, but now — toward nightfall 
— was becoming monotonous, what with its profu- 
sion of Kris Kringles and street hawkers, and its 
babble of eleventh hour shoppers. It was like wit- 
nessing a really thrilling movie drama for the second 
time, thought Alice, who had initiated herself into 
9 


the delights of moving-picture entertainment for the 
first time that day, and wondered at its remarkable 
duplication. By five o^clock the little girl knew 
just what each and every Santa Claus was going to 
say to her, and what was coming next, and that one 
— at least — of the three remaining Santas would 
want to kiss her. She had been kissed almost to 
death, as it was, and that was beginning to bore her, 
too. 

It occurred to Alice., who was a shrewd little girl 
and not one of your bleating lambs, that Santa Claus, 
despite his profusion — or because of it — might be 
something of an old fraud, after all. She was en- 
tirely certain that not one of him resembled the jolly 
old saint of her mental picture. The cottony fellow 
at Wanacooper’s was not a bit red and chubby, nor 
very jovial either; and she hoped that the others — 
at the Emporium, and the Bargain Store, and the 
Bon Marche — would agree more sympathetically, 
as to corpulence, with the merry and very dear old 
gentleman of her favorite poem. 

She repeated the first lines, softly, under her 
breath : 

*Twas the night before Christmas, 

And all through the house 
Not a creature was stirring, 

Not even a mouse, . . 

Well, that was not not surprising. Obviously, all 
the creatures who might otherwise have been stirring 
about the house on the night before Christmas were 
crowding and jostling each other in department 
10 


stores, buying useless presents for people they didn’t 
like. Alice thought it odd that this hadn’t occurred 
to her before. It made the beginning of the poem 
quite clear. 

The Santa Claus at the Emporium was entirely 
surrounded by children. Entirely surrounded? 
Why not! The schoolroom definition of an island is 
authority for it: ‘‘An island is a body of land 
entirely surrounded by water.” Sticklers for ac- 
curacy will have it that the “entirely” is extraneous. 
If, they say, if he — or it — that is, Santa Claus or 
the island — is surrounded by anything (whether 
water or children), he — or it — is surrounded, and 
that is all there is to it. Not “entirely surround- 
ed”; just surrounded. Happily, Alice knew noth- 
ing of this. As for us, we are nothing if not inde- 
pendent, and care nothing for grammarians — noth- 
ing at all. The Santa Claus at the Emporium was 
entirely surrounded by children, just like all his 
duplicates, and, in the midst of an alarming racket, 
was writing long lists of juvenile wants in a big book- 
keeper’s ledger. The big bookkeeper was nowhere 
about, and so the old fellow went right ahead, just 
as if it had been his own ledger, and filled as many 
columns as a child wished, in the most amiable man- 
ner in the world. He was the nicest Santa Claus 
Alice had yet seen. 

He did not immediately notice Alice, who was 
neither larger nor smaller than most of the other 
children shouting around him ; but when he did no- 
tice her he liked her right away. He liked the old- 
fashioned way of her, and her last century clothes, 
11 


and from the way she looked at him he was sure that 
she, at least, believed in him, and wasn’t dropping 
in just to see how much she could get out of him. 
And then he hurried, so that he could finish quickly 
with the others and get around to Alice. It wasn’t 
very long until there she was — right up beside him, 
with his dear old whiskers tickling her shell-like ears 
(one of them, anyway), and his pen poised over a 
perfectly blank page, ready to write down anything 
that Alice asked him to. And his voice, too, was 
very pleasant. 

^^Now,” said this kindly old saint, adjusting his 
eyebrows with some care, for they were slightly 
moth-eaten and appeared to be falling otf — and no 
wonder, either, for some hundreds of boys and girls 
had been leaning against them all day — *‘Now,” 
said this nice old man, ‘‘what do you wish me to 
bring you for Christmas, little Golden-hair?” 

There was something charming about the way he 
emphasized the you that put Alice at ease immediate- 
ly. So she told him all about the lovely doll, and the 
darling kitten, and the sweet bird she wanted, and 
had been wanting for a long time, and all about the 
books she needed with which to catch up on the world. 
For she had been locked away for so long that she 
felt a bit out of date, and such phrases as “League 
of Nations” and “Maple Nut Sundae” simply meant 
nothing to her, while they were the common property 
of every other girl and boy in the land. 

The good-natured old soul wrote them all down 
very carefully, and then kissed Alice just as she had 
expected he would. He promised faithfully to de- 
12 


liver every one of her orders, in person, and warned 
her about seeing that the hearth fire was extin- 
guished before midnight. 

‘‘Because promptly at midnight,’’ he said, “I shall 
come down the chimley. ’ ’ 

Alice giggled at that. 

“You mean the chimney, don’t you?” she asked. 

‘ ‘ Chimney, indeed ! ” snorted Santa Claus. “After 
all these years, don’t you think I know the diiference 
between a chimney and a chimley? No, sir ! I come 
down a chimley, every time. I’ll leave it to every- 
one here.” 

And turning to the crowd of boys and girls around 
him, he asked: “How do I get into the house, chil- 
dren?” 

“Down the chimley!” roared the chorus. 

“You see?” said Santa Claus. 

Alice did see, and felt very much ashamed of her 
display of ignorance. 

“Never mind,” said Santa Claus, kindly. “But 
I think,” he added, “you had better go with my as- 
sistant, and be quite sure we have all these things in 
stock. He’ll be glad to show you around. It’s all 
free, you know. Just look around as long as you 
like, and if you see anything else you want, come 
right back and tell me about it. ’ ’ 

There was a little boy standing beside Santa Claus, 
with a metal tag on his collar, and the generous old 
gentleman turned to him and told him to go and fetch 
his — that is, Santa Claus’s — assistant. While 
Alice was waiting, a lot of other children pushed 
forward, and Alice was pretty nearly forgotten. But 
13 


after a while she heard some one say, ‘^He’s coming 
now. He’ll be here in just a minute, now,” and at 
the same moment she saw Santa Claus’s assistant 
coming toward her. 

He was a sprightly little fellow, and Alice decided 
to like him. He came up in a sort of blue-green light, 
which danced all around him, and without the slight- 
est hesitation Alice took his hand and walked away 
with him. 

The little man’s fingers were so cold and hard, 
though, that Alice was surprised, and when she was 
sure he wasn’t looking she looked him over earnestly. 
After she had done that, she almost screamed, used 
as she was to odd things in Wonderland. For the 
little man was made of wood. Everything was wood, 
and Alice was holding on to his wooden fingers, and 
he was talking out of his wooden mouth, and the 
whole alfair was the most wooden episode Alice 
could remember. His remarks concerning some of 
the books Alice wanted, the little girl thought, were 
the most wooden thing about him. But the little 
man’s face was rather nice, for it was highly painted 
in blue and green, and he had bright yellow eyes that 
fairly sparkled with enamel. 

Let’s see,” said the wooden man. “Dolls were 
first on the list, weren’t they? Well, here we are. 
We call this room ‘The Kingdom of Dolls,’ although 
as a matter of fact it is ruled by a Queen, and never 
did have a King, because the Queen is rather old and 
nobody will marry her. And as she won’t allow any 
of the other dolls to marry until she herself finds a 
King, it makes it hard for the younger ones.” 

14 


‘ ‘ Dear me, ^ ’ said Alice. ^ ^ Do you suppose I might 
get a peep at the Queen, without being seenT^ 

‘‘Easy enough,’^ said the wooden man, “for there 
she is — that long-haired doll with the purple robe. 
She likes to be looked at, and I need hardly remark 
that her hair is false. She’s awfully stuck up, 
though, and we won’t tarry long, for she’d only snub 
us.” 

“What a funny crown she is wearing,” laughed 
Alice, turning her head to look back. 

“You may well say so,” said the wooden man, 
ironically, “for it is made of kistletoe. She never 
takes it off!” 

“Kistletoe!” said Alice, and then, forgetting her 
humiliating experience about the chimley, “Don’t 
you mean mistletoe?” 

“No, I mean kistletoe,” replied the wooden man, 
rather impatiently. ‘ ‘ Everybody knows what kistle- 
toe is. But then, perhaps you are too young. When 
you are older you will know more.” 

“I’m thirteen,” said Alice, with proper dignity. 

“Thirteen!” shrieked the wooden man, so loudly 
that Alice felt sure she had offended again. “What 
a dreadfully unlucky number! I should be fright- 
ened to death to be thirteen. How long have you 
been thirteen?” 

“Nearly two months now,” Alice confessed, miser- 
ably. Then she brightened. ‘ ‘ But everybody has to 
be thirteen sometime. Weren’t you ever thirteen?” 

“Never!” declared the wooden man, firmly. 
“When my thirteenth birthday approached, I tore 
off an entire year of the calendar, and passed right 
15 


into my fourteenth year. Of course, there was a 
fearful row about it! But it^s really just like skip- 
ping a grade at school. If you ’re smart enough you 
can do it. We have some very nice calendars,” he 
added, professionally. 

Alice was frankly bewildered, but she had for- 
gotten her wounded dignity. In a moment her atten- 
tion was attracted by a succession of melodious 
sounds, ending on a queer upward inflection that 
seemed to leave the phrase unfinished, and hanging 
in the air. 

‘‘Do listen!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t that too 
sweet? It sounds like a bird singing.” 

“Most birds do,” said the wooden man, drily. 
“That ’s your bird, ’ ’ he added, more politely. “You 
asked for a bird, you know.” 

“But why does it end its song so abruptly?” asked 
Alice. “It doesn’t seem to finish.” 

“Confinement,” answered the little guide, briefly. 
“Its cage is too small. Its notes only reach the top 
of the cage, and then echo back into its own ears, 
which naturally surprises it into silence. It’s too 
bad, for it’s losing its upper register. It once sang 
very well. ’ ’ 

“I shall let it go when I get it,” declared Alice, 
with decision. 

“You may do as you please, of course,” agreed 
the wooden man, “but you’ll only be wanting another 
one, next Christmas.” 

They hurried forward, pressing through the crowd 
about the cage. It was humorous the way the people 
fell back on either side of the wooden man’s sharp- 
16 


elbows. What they saw, when they reached the cage, 
was a beautiful yellow bird with black wings, and big 
black eyes, swinging and singing on a perch of gold. 

‘‘Wound up too tightly,’’ muttered the wooden 
man. “One of the monkeys has been monkeying 
mth the key. ’ ’ 

With a ferocious glare at the children around him, 
he reached in a hand, and Alice heard a sharp click. 
The bird stopped singing in the middle of a note. 
Then the wooden man lifted the little creature from 
its perch and brought it forth with as little concern 
as if it were made of wood, too. 

“Oh!” cried Alice, in distress. “You mustn’t 
hurt the bird! It wasn’t its fault that somebody 
monkeyed with the key. ” 

. The word monkeyed puzzled her, but she supposed 
it was all right, since that was what the wooden man 
had said. 

But the wooden man only laughed and held out the 
bird for her inspection. Then Alice saw that it was 
not a real bird at all, but was made of thin metal so 
skilfully painted as to look real. 

“You forget this is Toyland,” grinned the wooden 
man. “This bird is no more real than I am, than 
these children are — than you are ! ’ ’ 

“Ain’t I real?” asked Alice, in alarm. Quickly 
correcting herself, she said: “Am I not real?” 

“Beal enough,” said the wooden man, casually. 
“A real nuisance,” he muttered, under his breath; 
but fortunately Alice did not hear this rude remark. 
He continued, more pleasantly: “Oh, the bird is 
real enough, too. But it ’s been wound up too tightly. 

17 


It doesn’t know what it is singing, or why it is sing- 
ing. It lacks a soul.” 

This remark was too deep for Alice, so she made 
no reply. After a minute, she asked : 

‘‘Aren’t there any more animals?” 

“Birds aren’t animals,” sneered the wooden man, 
and then he was very much ashamed of himself. “I 
beg your pardon,” he said, contritely. “I had for- 
gotten you are only thirteen. ” (He shuddered as he 
mentioned the sinister number.) “Well, yes, there 
is the Performing Pony, and the Whistling Toad, 
and the Talking Dog, and the Teddy Bear, and the 
Laughing Hyena, and the Sorrowful Snake, and the 
Ingenious Ibex, and the Loquacious Lynx, and — Oh, 
we have quite a menagerie ! ’ ’ 

He looked quizzically at Alice, and suddenly began 
to sing: 

0, ferocious and atrocious is the beast they 
call the lynx; 

And fierce his howl, and black his scowl, 
and red his jowl, methinks. . 

“You have a very nice voice,” said Alice, as the 
singer paused. 

“I wish you wouldn’t interrupt,” snapped the 
wooden man. “First you want to hear about the 
animals, and then you don’t.” He stopped short. 
“Do you really like my voice?” he asked eagerly. 
Then his head drooped woodenly, for he saw that 
Alice was no longer paying attention. 

“I haven’t much of a voice myself,” mused the 
little girl, “but I think I could speak a piece.” 

18 


‘‘Let’s hear it,” urged the wooden man. And in 
a moment Alice heard herself reciting: 

I thought I heard a parson swear 
Because his eyes were sore; 

1 turned around j and saw it was 
The watchdog’s honest snore. 

Alas,” he whispered, tearfully, 

** That two times two is four!” 

I thought I saw a mastodon 
Upon the pantry shelf; 

1 looked again, and saw it was 
A picture of myself. 

“0 dear,” I said, *Hhe albatross 
Is eating all the pelf I” 

“What’s pelf?” demanded the wooden man, criti- 
cally. 

“Pelf is — I think it’s something to eat,” ex- 
plained Alice. “But I didn’t have to say pelf. I 
could have said elf, or delf — ” 

“Or skjelf!” jeered the wooden man. “Poetic 
license is a dangerous thing for a girl of thirteen. 
I shall see that yours is revoked at once. ’ ’ 

Alice began to cry with shame and humiliation. 

“There, there,” cried the wooden man, ashamed 
of himself again. “I was only plaguing you. You 
rhyme beautifully — much better than I do. Now, 
let’s go and see P. D.” 

“ P. D. ? ” queried Alice, drying her tears. ‘ ‘ Who 
is P. D.?” 

“Why the Plausible Donkey, to be sure,” laughed 
19 


the wooden man. You said you wanted to see some 
more animals. 

‘‘Why don’t you call him D. P.?” asked Alice, 
after a moment, as they walked toward the mem 
agerie. 

“Why?” The wooden man seemed suspicious. 

“Democratic Party,” giggled Alice; and then 
stopped as she caught sight of the wooden man’s 
face, which was contorted with paint. “I beg your 
pardon,” she added, hastily. 

But the wooden man wooden speak another word 
until they had arrived at the Donkey Shelter, when 
he became cheerful once more. 

“Let me introduce you to the Plausible Donkey,’^ 
he said, gallantly. 

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Donkey,” said Alice, 
timidly. ‘ ‘ What beautiful eyes you have. ’ ’ 

“The better to see you with, my child,” quoted 
the Plausible Donkey, just to show that he was not 
such a donkey as he looked. ‘ ‘ What can I do for you 
to-day?” 

“Can you sing?” asked Alice, innocently. 

‘ ‘ Heavens ! ’ ’ groaned the wooden man, in her ear. 
“Now you’ve done it! He has no more voice than 
a crow I ’ ’ 

But the Plausible Donkey was pleased by the 
question. 

“It is not surprising that you do not know my 
ability in that respect,” he smiled, “since this is 
your first visit. The fact is — ” He blushed mod- 
estly. “The fact is, I am descended from that nota- 
ble singer, Maxwelton.” 


20 


‘‘Maxweltonl’^ echoed Alice, in surprise. 
thought that was a song.” 

‘‘It was originally,” the Plausible Donkey said, 
plausibly. “My ancestor was named after the song 
because his brays were bonnie.” 

“Oh,” said Alice, politely; but the wooden man 
snickered and spoiled it all. 

“You’re making fun of me,” she cried, with tears 
in her voice, “and I don’t want to hear you sing 
now.” 

She hurried away, leaving the wooden man to 
apologize as best he could for Alice’s impoliteness. 
He was puffing mightily when he overtook her. 

“I think we’ve had enough of animals,” he said, 
between gasps. “Let’s go over and see the books.” 
It was evident, even to Alice, that he was getting 
tired of his charge. 

They were in the book department before they 
knew it — before Alice knew it, at any rate. All 
around them were books — heaps and heaps of them 
— on tables and shelves, and piled on long counters, 
and hung up in booths ; and in the very center of the 
immense room, whose horizon could not be seen for 
the stacks of books, was a great American Eagle, 
made entirely of books, the work of the chief win- 
dow-dresser, who was a very literary man. 

“Have you ‘The Young Visiters’?” asked Alice. 

‘ ‘Young visitors ! ’ ’ echoed the wooden man. ‘ ‘ San- 
ta Claus has dozens of them — hundreds — every day. 
Thousands, I guess!” 

“Silly! It’s a book,” said Alice. “It was writ- 


21 


ten by a friend of mine, Daisy Ashford, when she 
was only nine years old.’^ 

The wooden man looked very suspiciously at his 
charge. 

‘^Nobody could write a book at nine,’’ he said, 
with finality. 

Daisy could, and did,” declared Alice. 

Nobody could get it published, anyway,” sneered 
the wooden man. ‘‘Of course, anbody could write 
one. ’ ’ 

“And she had it published, and here it is!” cried 
Alice, triumphantly. She snatched a book from a 
long counter, and presented it to her companion. 

The wooden man cautiously took it, turned it over, 
and handed it back. 

“Where does it say she is only nine years old?” 
he demanded. 

“In the preface, of course,” answered Alice. 
“She’s older now, but she was only nine when she 
wrote it.” 

She whirled over the leaves until she found the 
place. 

“There it is! Sir James Barrie himself says so, 
in the preface.” 

“Humph!” said the wooden man. “He probably 
wrote it himself. And he wasn ’t nine when he wrote 
it, either, although he ’s pretty childish, at that. He ’s 
writing introductions, now, for anybody.” 

“He would at least know how to spell visitors, 
wouldn’t he?” 

The wooden man stared at the cover. At sight of 
the title he was visibly shaken. 

22 


‘‘It might he a typographical error,’’ he ventured. 
“But, if you know this Daisy Ashford, what’s her 
book about?” 

“It’s about a man who — who was in love with — 
with a young woman, ’ ’ lucidly explained Alice. ‘ ‘ He 
was rather an old man, and — ” 

“Then Barrie wrote it!” interrupted the wooden 
man. “That ends thatV^ 

“It doesn’t end anything,” cried Alice, almost in 
tears. ‘ ‘ And he doesn ’t write as many introductions 
as H. G-. Wells, anyway!” 

“0-ho!” said the wooden man. “Well?” 

“Wells!” said Alice, sharply. “Wells, Wells! 
How many wells make a river?” 

“Eeally,” admonished the wooden man, “you 
mustn’t get out of temper. I don’t like Wells any 
more than you do. I find it difficult to get to the 
bottom of them. . .” He fell to singing: 

Mr, B rifling saw if through, 

Thaf was more fhan 1 could do! 

Cenfral, ring up Heaven^ s hells — 

Gef me God, for H, G, Wells, 

Alice appeared shocked at this levity. 

“You should not be so Leviticus,” she said, “even 
in a good cause.” 

‘ ‘ I don ’t mean to be irrelevant, ’ ’ replied the wood- 
en man. “I was only reviewing Mr. Wells in rhyme. 
Would you like to hear the next verse? It’s about 
Amy Lowell. ’ ’ 

“I don’t believe I’d better,” answered Alice, nerv- 
ously. “Is she anything like Daisy Ashford?” 

23 


^^They^re not exactly as like as twins,’’ admitted 
the wooden man. ‘‘Your Daisy is rather — er — 
slender, is she not?” 

“Oh, very!” 

‘ ‘ Then she ’s not, ’ ’ said the wooden man, with con- 
viction. “I have never seen Amy Lowell, hut Mr. 
Bitter Wynner, who was here one day last week, told 
me that he had got up in a street car and offered to 
be one of three men to give Miss Lowell a seat. ’ ’ 

“Dear me!” exclaimed Alice. “She needs some 
of my cake.” 

“Cake?” asked the wooden man. 

But Alice, fearing she had betrayed herself, would 
say no more about it. 

“Well,” said the wooden man, “we’ve checked on 
the doll, and the bird, and the books. There was to 
be a kitten, I believe. That means that we’ll have 
to go back to the menagerie.” 

“I won’t go back to the menagerie,” Alice said 
firmly, “and if the kittens are no more polite than 
the donkeys, I won’t have one.” 

“You’ll have to ask Santa Claus to strike it off the 
list then, or you’ll have it sure tomorrow morning. 
And we’ll have to hustle, too, for the old boy closes 
up at eight o’clock. He went on strike for a shorter 
day, last month — seven hundred of him — and after 
eight o’clock he won’t do a lick of work.’^ 

“Let’s hurry,” cried Alice, breathlessly. 

So they hurried back through the teeming aisles, 
past the Plausible Donkey, who brayed after them 
jeeringly, past the Singing Bird, which offered to 
finish its song if they would only tarry, past the 
24 


stuck-up Queen of the Dolls, who ogled the Wooden 
Man, shamefully, and at length arrived at the cottony 
dwelling of Santa Claus. But — alas! — the door 
now was closed, and tacked to the outer panel was a 
large sign, ‘‘Gone to the Eaces. Back Next Year.^’ 

“Oh!’^ said Alice, “isn’t it provoking! Now I 
shall have to have a kitten, after all — and I suppose 
it will eat the bird, and scratch the doll, and tear up 
the books, and make me angry all day long. ’ ’ 

“No doubt,” said the wooden man, callously. 

“But what does he mean by the races?” asked 
curious Alice. 

“The reindeer races,” replied the wooden man. 
“They race annually on Saturn’s race track, and the 
winning Santa Claus is the boss Santa Claus of the 
year, and makes the rounds on Christmas eve. It 
doesn’t take a minute to get there, and probably by 
this time the races are over.” 

“I hope our Santa Claus won, don’t you?” cried 
Alice. 

“What’s the difference?” asked the wooden man. 
“They all look alike.” 

“That’s so,” said Alice, reflectively, “but this one 
was very nice. ’ ’ 

“They’re paid to be nice,” said the wooden man, 
cynically. “I’m paid to be nice. You don’t think 
I’ve been piloting you round all afternoon for fun, 
do you?” 

‘ ‘Well, ’ ’ said Alice, with spirit, ‘ ‘ I like that ! I ’m 
sure if I knew who paid you, I’d report you and you 
wouldn’t get a penny. You don’t deserve it, for you 
haven ’t been nice. I shall leave you, this minute. ’ ’ 
25 


Good-bye/’ grinned the wooden man, mocking- 
ly. ‘‘Close the door after you as you go out.” 

“That was a very rude wooden man,” thought 
Alice to herself, as, half blinded with tears, she hur- 
ried through the snowy streets. “It is very evident 
that he tore off his thirteenth year. That is the year 
when people learn to be polite. And he said I was 
not real ! I never knew till I was thirteen how real 
I was. ’ ’ 

Without quite knowing where she was going, un- 
consciously her footsteps strayed toward the shop 
of the old bookman, the only friend she had found 
who seemed to be genuine. The precious volume, 
which once she had thought a prison, was safe be- 
neath her arm. Well, she knew now what she would 
do. She would give it back, and if the old man were 
so kind as to let her, she would creep back into 
the pages, and be happy there again forever. . . 

“Poor child,” smiled the old bookman, when she 
had related her adventures, and cried over them. 
“Indeed he did need his thirteenth year. That is 
the age at which one best appreciates what reality 
is. Once learned, it is a lesson never to be forgotten. 
To the child of thirteen, all things are real if they 
are beautiful, and all things are unreal which are 
ugly. Anything is real that we want to be real. 
Sensible writers, like Barrie, learn this at thirteen 
and tear off all the remaining years of the calendar. 
Time passes, but they remain thirteen ; they improve 
their style, their appreciation of beautiful things 
deepens, their outlook is broader and finer, but at 
26 


heart they are still children. They have never es- 
caped from their thirteenth year, and they never will 
— and they are very glad about it. ’ ’ 

To this astonishing harangue, Alice had no reply, 
for truth to tell she understood very little of it; but 
it sounded real, and she liked the look on the old 
bookman’s face as he said it. 

‘‘Would you mind, sir,” she timidly asked, “if I 
were to creep back into my book, and hide again on 
your shelf ? ” 

“Are you quite sure you can manage it?” asked 
the old man. 

“Oh, yes,” said Alice, “for I still have a piece of 
cake that I brought with me. I had two pieces — one 
to make me grow, and one to make me small again. 
Just watch me!” 

Then she took a few crumbs of cake from her 
pocket and began to eat them ; and the old bookman 
standing by, saw her shrink down and down and 
down, until she was such a tiny little thing at his feet 
that his eyes could barely find her. 

He picked her up gently, and opened the book lying 
on the counter. 

‘ ‘ You must find the place, ’ ’ he said : “Do you re- 
member it?” 

With a little sigh of relief, Alice slipped into the 
right picture, where, to her great joy, she fitted like 
a glove — and suddenly the picture was complete 
again, and the old bookman turning the leaves over 
could not find her — there were so many of her, and 
he did not know which one was really her. 

Suddenly the book fell from his hand, and clattered 
27 


onto the floor, striking his foot as it fell. At the 
same instant, of course, he awoke, sitting in his chair 
near the old stove. He smiled a little, but was not 
surprised, for he was used to dreaming strange and 
pleasant dreams. As he stooped to pick up the book, 
a customer entered the store. 

‘‘What have you there asked the stranger, look- 
ing at the book in the old man’s hand. “ ‘Alice in 
Wonderland?’ Charming thing! WThat do you ask 
for it?” 

“Not this copy,” said the old man, firmly. “This 
is my personal copy. This is one book you cannot 
buy.” 


28 


TWO HUNDRED COPIES OP THIS BOOK 
WERE PRINTED BY THE TORCH PRESS 
CEDAR RAPIDS IOWA IN THE MONTH 
OF DECEMBER NINETEEN NINETEEN 


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